Девять рассказов

           "How’ditgo?Wasitinteresting?"

           "Attimes,yes.Attimes,no,"Teddysaid."Westayedalittlebittoolong.MyfatherwantedtogetbacktoNewYorkalittlesoonerthanthisship.ButsomepeoplewerecomingoverfromStockholm,Sweden,andInnsbruck,Austria,tomeetme,andwehadtowaitaround."

           "It’salwaysthatway."

           Teddylookedathimdirectlyforthefirsttime."Areyouapoet?"heasked.

           "Apoet?"Nicholsonsaid."Lord,no.Alas,no.Whydoyouask?"

           "Idon’tknow.Poetsarealwaystakingtheweathersopersonally.They’realwaysstickingtheiremotionsinthingsthathavenoemotions."

           Nicholson,smiling,reachedintohisjacketpocketandtookoutcigarettesandmatches."Iratherthoughtthatwastheirstockintrade,"hesaid."Aren’temotionswhatpoetsareprimarilyconcernedwith?"

           Teddyapparentlydidn’thearhim,orwasn’tlistening.Hewaslookingabstractedlytoward,orover,thetwinsmokestacksupontheSportsDeck.

           Nicholsongothiscigarettelit,withsomedifficulty,fortherewasalightbreezeblowingfromthenorth.Hesatback,andsaid,"Iunderstandyouleftaprettydisturbedbunch—"

           "`Nothinginthevoiceofthecicadaintimateshowsoonitwilldie,’"Teddysaidsuddenly."’Alongthisroadgoesnoone,thisautumneve."’

           "Whatwasthat?"Nicholsonasked,smiling."Saythatagain."

           "ThosearetwoJapanesepoems.They’renotfullofalotofemotionalstuff,"Teddysaid.Hesatforwardabruptly,tiltedhisheadtotheright,andgavehisrightearalightclapwithhishand.